Rachel McClain and Hogwart-y Adventures
by Thingygazinga
Summary: Rachel McClain was the twin of Lance, the younger sister of Veronica, Luis, and Marco. Socializing was a qualm, dueling was a thought, and the magical world possessed more mystery than she ever wanted to hear. But if there was one thing, it was this: Rachel McClain was a crazy-brilliant adapter. And she was a witch.


PROLOGUE TO FIRST YEAR

"Matt . . . " Shiro said, peeking hesitantly outside. He looked around at his surroundings, frowned at what he saw, and pinched the bridge of his nose like headmaster Kolivan did almost every morning. "Why are we in the Slytherin bathroom?" he asked, gesturing to his own red and yellow scarf.

Matt Holt, with no qualms, simply grinned mischievously. "We-" he grunted as he twisted at the faucet. "Are gonna pull a prank on every house. Starting with mine."

Shiro raised an eyebrow, the spell to easily unscrew the faucet on the tip of his tongue, held back only by disapproval. "And why?"

"Oh, c'mon, Shiro. We're nearing the end of seventh year, and nothing's gone wrong! I've passed my tests, you've passed your tests, Luis's passed his tests, blah blah blah. We're gonna-" he grunted again, then stepped back and fished for his wand. "We're gonna have to do better than that."

With a simple swish and a dramatic incantation, Matt dismantled the entire sink, the head of a snake clattering down despondently."Man, Slytherins are all about the figureheads." He nudged the caboshed metal with his foot before turning to the pipes. "Okay, Shir-bear. Watch and learn."

Shiro rolled his eyes, glancing behind him. "Matt, are you sure this is a good idea?"

Said boy was already arm deep in the tubes, tapping incessantly at the interior and muttering spells from a torn piece of parchment he'd scribbled on just three hours ago. "Yeah," he said, pausing and turning to beam at his friend, as if he were preparing a Christmas gift for a loved one rather than trying to jinx the Hogwart's bathroom pipes into puking out slime. "Why wouldn't it be?"

For a moment, Shiro simply stared at the completely innocent tone held unwaveringly by the scrawny, caramel-haired boy in front of him. He resisted the urge to bring his hands up and rub at his temples. For once, he was glad that Luis, who often encouraged Matt's shenanigans with his carefree humor, was not there.

"Alrighty. Pass me that potion, would you?"

Shiro glanced to the side, at the small canister of dark green sludge, bubbling ominously as if it were waiting for Matt to charm it to augmenting breadth, augmented life. He sighed like the world was weighing on his shoulders and jerkily grabbed it. "Did you have to land us in detention to do this?"

"Well, yeah. Plus, Professor Zarkon actually let us off a little easy. All's we had to do was do a little scourgify, clean the sinks, and then dirty them up again with this little sucker." Matt paused, patted the potions container fondly, then tilted his head. "Yanno, I think he's going a little soft. Zarkon. Not the potion." He dumped the goo into the pipes, carefully and a little menacingly. With a smugness at the corners of his mouth, Matt flicked his wand with the jerky grace of a skilled joker.

Shiro tensed, instinctively backing away. He was expecting the sludge to lurch to specious life, expecting Matt to cackle and clap his hands, but . . . nothing happened.

"That's weird . . ." Matt frowned, peering in. He scanned his parchment paper again, then looked back up. "It should be doing something right about now . . ."

They both stared in silence at the pipes, but the slime simply continued bubbling merrily in the damp pipes, unchanged.

Matt glanced back at Shiro, who scooted closer in unfulfilled anticipation. "Well, that was anticlimactic."

"Yeah," Shiro said, relief creeping into his voice even as slight disappointment hued in at the edges. Maybe they didn't need to pull through with this prank. Maybe he'd be able to uphold his hankered reputation of a good student for once.

Matt, evidently, did not share the same feelings. Pouting rather dramatically, he peered into the pipes again, clearly debating whether or not to retry the spell. He poked at the gunk with the end of his wand. "Okay, that's really weird. I don't think the slime even registered the spell . . . I did cast it, right?"

Shiro raised an eyebrow. "Um. I think . . .?"

"Then it should be-"

Suddenly, a glow lit up, illuminating Matt's face in swathes of an eerie deep purple. Both boys yelped in tangency, stepping back in surprise.

"Er," said Shiro. "Is it supposed to be like that?"

Matt boldly made his way forward. "Nope. Did someone else tinker with these pipes or something?" He pointed his wand at it, muttering a spell under his breath in timid observation.

"Maybe that's why Professor Zarkon sent us here. To clean it out," Shiro joked. Still, he couldn't help but feel a little wary-the purple glow wasn't coming from the slime, it was coming from behind it.

And there was something off-putting about the magic. It reached at him with claws and hooks, an almost parasitic-like feeling leeching off of it. Yet, at the same time, it was almost beckoning, warming-a taste of something a little exhilarating, a little powerful.

"Matt . . ." Shiro took a deep breath, held it, and strolled forward. "Maybe we should report this to the teachers-"

"Oh no." Face pale, lips drawn tight, Matt hurriedly backed away, pulling at Shiro's sleeves. "I don't think that's good."

"What-"

His hands shaking, Matt casted another round of spells. The light was getting brighter, brighter, brighter, until it was almost pink in color. Shiro watched in horror as the little mound of slime shrank, darkened, the effervescent bubbles popping one by one until it blended in with the pipes, motionless and shadowed, as if the essence had been sucked out of it.

Matt and Shiro reacted as one, instincts pushing them out the bathroom, out of the way of whatever they'd found, whatever they'd triggered, but light traveled faster than legs could ever carry, and the glow exploded outwards, crumbling into the walls, reaching, reaching, reaching-

Shiro flung out an arm, the scream of protego extended silently toward his friend next to him, a desperate call of protection on a single, reactive breath-

Ringing in their ears, blackness in their vision-and a single violet figure, standing from the pipes. It floated over toward the fallen boys, its purple glow pulsing in new life. There was a clatter in the hall, the sound of a student, or teacher, passing by, and in one fell swoop, the figure disappeared.

The bathroom was empty, the only sign of catastrophe a taken-apart sink for a prank unfinished.

FIRST YEAR

Rachel thought that it was funny, really, how the McClain family was like a huge melting pot-not one who shared too much with the other, not one who excelled and failed like the other. It was nice, in a way, in theory. They were a family of odds and ends, open-minded with arms wide and accepting. They were chaotic and loud and crazy, and Rachel sort of loved it.

However, in practice, some things were a little annoying. Exhibit A: Lance was a morning person. In fact, he was also an afternoon and night person. He woke up chirpy, slept with a smile under his rigorous skin care masks, moved about at three in the morning like he had just drank twenty cups of coffee. Rachel, however, was quite the opposite-she definitely yawned throughout the entire day, and then more. She dreamed about sleeping. She was death personified and a zombie at best.

So. When her brother came plowing into her room at 8 AM, came throwing open the curtains to the deathly touch of light, Rachel had problems. For a moment, she kept her eyes closed as if she could wish his presence away like a dream. Instead, Lance crept nearer, nearer, until his presence hovered over her like a ghost, and then he was softly tapping her face, making excited little sing-song noises with each poke.

"Hey. Hey. You awake?"

Was he kidding? Irritated and sleep-deprived, she rolled over, burying her face into her worn pillow and pulling the blanket above her head, hoping Lance got the hint and left her alone. The idiot just leaned over, casting a shadow and had the audacity to laugh.

"Get up! It's-"

Morning-anger prompted Rachel to suddenly stick out a hand, shove it in her brother's face, and push. She heard the thump and the startled "oof" of him landing on his rump, and waited with bated breath for the exaggerated complaints that, at times, were endearing but probably going to be a pain in the butt for her then because it was eight, and nobody should be up at the ungodly eight.

But nothing came. She frowned, her eyes still scrunched shut. Okay. Maybe she had been a little harsh. It was understandable for Lance to risk coming in, something rarely anybody did, as it was the first day of Hogwarts. She and Lance had both packed a week before, stuffing everything from extra quills to those funky-looking screaming chicken toys Veronica had given them on her last trip to the Muggle world. Lance had spent nearly every day of that month cooped up in his room, reading and re-reading his textbooks to counterbalance his bad memory, going over wand movements and muttering the spells.

Rachel still remembered the composition of their wands. Hers was alder with dragon heartstring. Four galleons exactly. Lance's was Applewood and unicorn hair. Four galleons. Five sickles. The trip to Diagon Alley had been such a rush, and Lance, who had always seemed to feel more than her, experience more than her, had expectedly carried the foot-jiggling tingles up to now. Here. Barging into her room.

She waited for Lance's recovery-perhaps she did push him a little too hard. She'd apologize after he gave the signal he was still alive enough to hear her. . . but nothing. Rachel knew he was still there, in some visceral part of her, because as much as she and Lance differed in personality, they shared the same special connection that connected all twins in any wizarding family. It was a subtle sensation, but she could sense him; she knew his magic, knew what he needed to say, and vice versa-there were almost no earcorns or secrets among the two of them.

So after a few tense seconds had passed, Rachel sat up with a scowl, her wavy hair poofing into messy tangles in front of her. Lance was still lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. His hair was the color of the Hogwarts houses, streaks and ripples forming intricate shapes, and Rachel gave herself a moment to scrutinize the details and copy part of it into her own hair (just to prove that her metamorphmagus skills were just as good) before fully acknowledging the pitiful air he was giving off.

Softening, Rachel scooted off the bed and practically rolled over to her twin, blankets still wrapped around her to fight the cool morning air. "Hey." she nudged Lance with her cold feet. "What's wrong?"

His eyes closed, Lance shrugged awkwardly against the floor. "I dunno." Slowly, the mesh of rainbow in his hair faded to his usual brown, shifting softly against his forehead.

"Well, when did you wake up?"

"Like, three hours ago."

Three hou- "Okay, well that's probably why," she said grumpily.

"No. I just . . . " his eyes were still closed.

Rachel furrowed her eyebrows. "Go on . . . " As if she had flipped the lever, Lance dug his hands into his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it as he began so his voice was strained and pitched.

"I know this is really silly," he said, slowly sitting up so he was eye-level with her but his gaze was pointed steadily on the wooden boards of the floor. "Considering . . . everything. But what if we don't end up in the same house?"

Her stomach twisted. It wasn't like she hadn't thought about it before-she most certainly had. It wouldn't be a surprise, really. Despite their shared looks, if everybody was a big blob of personality floating around instead of stuck in flesh-covered sacks, she and Lance would probably hit way off the twin mark. It was preposterous to even think that she and Lance would both end up in Ravenclaw with Veronica-the McClain family was a melting pot, they were a variety, almost famous for the different combinations of houses their childrens would land in. Marco and her dad had been in Hufflepuff, Luis in Gryffindor, her mom in Ravenclaw, so on and so forth. Still, whenever the thought had broached, whenever the aching imagination of not being able to run across the hallway to Lance's room when something bordered on overwhelming, was . . . well.

It was overwhelming, so Rachel had pushed it away. She turned to say something like, "It's okay, Lance, just let things happen", but when she rolled her head to face him, his hair was slowly transforming into the despondent blue hue that always permeated when things were serious.

Pursing her lips and channeling her inner Lance, she took a deep breath and breathed, truthfully, bluntly, "Yeah. Yeah, I've thought about that, and honestly? . . ." she hesitated. Made sure Lance looked at her, their shared blue eyes reflected in each others. "How about we make a deal?"

"What?"

"A deal. In order to desensitize ourselves. Just in case."

Lance's face fell, his lower lip trembling in a way that set off blaring alarms in Rachel's mind, and she immediately rushed to continue. "It'll help me, too! It's a win-win sich, you get what I mean?"

"Okay."

Rachel took another deep breath, thought I guess I'm doing this, I'm actually gonna have to socialize, and, motivated by Lance's soft, hesitant voice and the knowledge that sometimes, underneath all of the pomp and circumstance, Lance's too-kind of a heart needed some comforting, she said, "When we get on the train, I bet I can make more friends than you. And we're going to do this because I am socially inept and need help, and the prize is that we get to hold it over the other, and you know what? Being in different houses isn't gonna make a difference. You know why?"

Silence. Rachel plowed on.

"Because no matter where we are, we're always gonna be right here." she pressed her hand to Lance's heart, and then tapped at his head. "Twins. Best friends. Okay? So we're allowed to make new friends and all, but we're gonna stay best friends. And we're not gonna forget about each other because first of all, I don't think that's possible, and second of all, I don't think that's possible. And . . ." She patted Lance's shoulder. "It's gonna be alright, okay? There's free time and all. And we can enchant some mirrors or something. Even if we were in the same house doesn't necessarily mean our schedules would match, you know? So . . ." She raised an eyebrow at her brother.

"It's gonna be alright?"

"Yeah." Rachel sighed heavily. "Oh my gosh, is this what you always feel like?"

"Tired but full of love?"

"Yeah."

"Then yeah." Lance laughed. "Thanks, Rachel. I guess I needed that."

"You guess? You're gonna have to do more than guess because I did not expend all that energy into my beautiful speech for nothing." She glanced out the window, at the rising sun spreading its orange-blue fingers and nudging golden tendrils into puffy gray clouds, and harrumphed. "And for waking me up so early. Jesh, Alejandro McClain, I hope the garden gnomes eat your stupid haircut."

Lance gasped so dramatically, Rachel almost feared he would choke. "You take that back, you-you-lumpy space burrito!"

Now understanding why her twin felt the need to gasp so loudly, Rachel did much the same. "YOU TAKE THAT BACK!"

Needless to say, they ended up waking up the whole house afterwards.

The trip to Platform 9 ¾ was a short, hectic one. It was a cloudy fall day, leaves of purples and blues spotting the ground and channeling the cool air; the only sounds had been the quiet swishing of wind and trees, the intermittent chirps of invisible crickets, and the loud shouts of Rachel, Lance, and their parents as they shoved everything to their fireplace.

"Hurry up! Don't keep your brothers and sister waiting!" her mother yelled, brassy voice extra loud as she wiped off her hands on her apron and moved to skillfully untie it. She grabbed Lance's face (as Rachel laughed and bathed in schadenfreude) and rubbed aggressively at his mouth, still stained a little with the greasy garlic bread he'd had.

"Relax, mama! We still have some time."

"Yeah, like twenty minutes." Rachel rolled her eyes and scooped up a pinch of Floo powder. "Are we going? I'm gonna go."

She went.

Tripping over her chosen robes, their little synecdoche of a family rushed toward the barrier, Lance plowing in front first, then her, then their parents. On the other side, Rachel squinted for the familiar short brown locks of her sister's hair, the stocky build of Luis, and the ridiculously bright clothing that Marco preferred to wear.

Needless to say, it wasn't too hard to spot them in the crowd.

The Hogwarts express was familiar in a way that she had already visited it multiple times for her older siblings. Polished red train, the swarming families, the noise that permeated and soaked into every bone and fiber like an extra layer sticking to skin. Animals chirping, barking, mewing, croaking. Flaps and flutters, feathers and fur. Teary promises and stone-cold standings. Wispy whiffs of home-baked goods as parting gifts; ladies with funky-looking hats, men with funky-looking beards, the inundating sense of magic swirling almost palpably in the air.

So when she crashed into Veronica's arms and got a mouthful of Lance's hair when Marco and Luis squished in, Rachel thought that that was possibly the best part of the platform.

Veronica said, "We've made the bets. Have you guys?" She grinned widely, and the wool cloth of her muggle clothes rubbed sharply against Rachel's cheeks. Lance glanced at her and they shared smirks of their own.

"Yep," Lance chirred. "I voted for you, Ronny, so you better prove me right."

"And I chose you," Rachel said, pointing decisively at Luis. "Because Lance got the first choice."

"That's understandable," said Marco flippantly, adjusting his ironed cloak, "Considering I am rather horrible at guessing games."

"And rather horrible at avoiding understatements," Luis said, grinning almost viciously. He, as always, smelled like fire and smoke, tan lines stretching around his wrists in imitations of the thick gloves he wore when he was out training dragons.

Rachel opened her mouth, about to tentatively assure herself of the sorting process again, but the train whistle shrieked through the air in warning, and they all turned toward it in varying shades of disappointment and excitement.

"Well, off we go, bros. Bye, mama, papa, love you! Yes, I'll help Rachel and Lance out. Here, I'll start by-" Veronica swished her wand, looked pointedly at their mom and dad, and levitated Lance's and Rachel's suitcases to the train. "Carrying their luggage. Alright? Alright. Bye! Love you again!"

When they got on the train, it was swarming with kids, some still in their casual clothes, some adjusting the cuffs of their school robes. Veronica hurriedly stored the luggage, bid them a quick goodbye, and rushed toward the prefect's compartment.

"Well, rude." Lance frowned, then shrugged. "So. This is where we part."

Rachel nodded, trying to hide her anxiety. "Yeah. Okay. Bye!" She fast-walked away before she could chicken out.

Walking the aisle felt awfully like she had just stepped into the spotlight. Anxiety almost made her run back to Lance. Nervousness almost made her sink to the ground and just wait everything out. Experience told her that both ideas were bad-if she backed out now, her morning speech would all be for naught, and her credibility would plummet.

Squaring her shoulders and, for the second time that day, conveying her inner Lance, she sauntered past the compartments. After passing room after room of too many kids, too many kids, she's intimidating, he looks drunk, she paused hesitantly at the second-to-last one. There was a lone boy sitting there, his shoulders tense, his shoulder-length hair a raven mess that curled at the ends.

Slowly, she slid open the doors and cleared her throat. "Hi. Can I sit here?"

That was a good start, right? The boy turned, his eyebrows pulled together. His eyes were the strangest kind of violet, dark and solemn. He glanced at her apathetically, shrugged, and turned back to look out the window. "Sure."

As if approaching an acromantula, Rachel shuffled in hesitantly, reminding herself to make friends, make friends, make friends, one is enough, one is enough and held her breath. Right. Introductions. That's how it went, right? (except maybe she should've just strolled into that one room with the girl with bright rainbow hair and strange-looking glasses). "Hi," she said again. "My name's Rachel."

The boy, clearly frowning now, stared at her for a solid second before saying, "Keith."

"Uh. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah."

"So, uh, what house do you think you'll be in?"

Keith shrugged, picking at his shirt. He pulled his legs against his chest, and Rachel thought he was going to just ignore her and continue staring out the window but he muttered out a grudging, "What about you?", every word handled with care as if he, too, was in Rachel's position.

Rachel shrugged and then vocalized it. "I dunno."

"Cool."

"Cool."

They spent the rest of the ride in complete silence, both of them apparently meeting their conversation quota. Rachel almost considered it a substantive friendship, companionable in the quiet, but ten minutes or so before they reached their destination, Keith left with his bundle of robes in order to change, and Rachel soon followed; when she arrived back, Keith didn't return again.

In the crowd of first years, Rachel caught sight of her brother, now accompanied by two other students, and she sighed as she debated whether or not to shove her way to him.

Cheater, she thought, recognizing the caramel hair of Katie Holt. They'd met Katie before, once, with Veronica, who was under the internship of Sam Holt working to do something with the intertwining of the Wizarding and Muggle world. The boy next to them was bigger than both Lance and Katie combined, with warm brown skin and warmer eyes.

In the end, she loitered awkwardly at the back, small stature making it almost impossible to see over the heads of the people in front, and the instructions of the teacher-guide-person only reached her with a sonorous spell.

The sorting hat started singing, its voice bellowing loudly, and Rachel could vaguely make out the whole expanse of the Hall, of the people. She captivated herself with the floating candles, their glows reflecting off of the ceiling, twinkling next to the stars and the thin crescent moon. Their stillness contrasted sharply against the murmur of a mob. Anticipation and fear twisted into knots in her chest as she, blind to distractions, waited for the sorting to start, waited for the ultimatum between her and her siblings (she tried to convince herself she had a 2/4 change of ending up in the same house of at least one sibling).

The teacher up front (who had a funny accent, was called "Coran, Coran, the gorgeous man!"; and, from the few glimpses she managed to catch, sported loud orange hair) began calling names, dramatizing each one, pulling out the syllables of another, shortening others into staccato notes, beating on them like he was announcing a celebrity.

Coran called up Katie Holt, who was sorted into Ravenclaw. He called up Hunk Garrett, the boy with the warm brown skin and warmer eyes, who was sorted into Hufflepuff. Their decisions were the lengthiest, decided after careful deliberation, and Rachel thought it was only appropriate that Lance managed to make friends with complex characters.

When Coran summoned Rachel (her name almost sounded foreign, a little like a dream spent too long on), she almost collapsed on her way there, muttering "excuse me's" to the people up front. She caught her brother's gaze, and they shared nervous smiles, before she stepped on to the stage.

Her twisting emotions grounded her, in a way, from straying to the thousands upon thousands of eyes she knew were glued onto her, the stool, and the hat. Hungry stares awaiting for an explosive announcement, another student to the competition. Coran had a mustache, Rachel noted distantly, and a bushy orange mustache combed to an almost strict neatness. She barely had time to register his grin before the hat was over her eyes, shutting out everything and anything, from the little murmurs to the taps of empty cutlery against empty plates and the cacophonous roar of a silent crowd.

Hmm . . .

Rachel almost jumped out of her seat despite her expectation. The hat's voice, tinny and tenor, continued, tinged with the amusement of surprise happening one too many times.

Another McClain. Ah, yes, I remember your sister, your brothers. Good mind, good hearts. And you have them, too . . . not so much a thirst for knowledge as an acceptance for the marks, eh? Ah, ah, ah, but caring . . . deep inside.

Hey!

The hat chuckled in her mind, the sound vibrating comfortably against her skull. But . . . interesting. Interesting . . .

She shifted uncomfortably, feeling a little antsy with her vision obscured. She pictured the colors of the houses, pictured herself getting up in each one of them. Rachel'd never really cared too much on what house she would get into-she knew each one had its flaws and perfections. She just wished the hat would move on already because as much as a cool bit of introspection would serve, Rachel found that getting out of the center of attention was paramount.

Ha!

This time, Rachel did jump a little, face flushing red.

Hmmm. Well, good luck, Miss McClain. I like to think that you will find my choice a little ironic. I do hope your brother is as intriguing as you.

Hey! Lance is-

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The worn fabric of the hat was swept off, almost giving Rachel vision-whip-lash. Suddenly, everything was light again; suddenly, she was met with a deluge of patterned colors and screaming Gryffindors, was being pushed into the flow of the sound without a moment of comprehension. The stripes of her tie blended into the signature crimson and gold of the lion's den.

She sat, her mouth a little opened, her mind a little boggled. Gryffindor? Her? Rachel looked around a slightly wildly, like somehow she'd find the answer to it on someone's face, but then the mustached-man was calling her brother's name, and she immediately tensed, gripping the smooth wooden edge of the bench as she watched Lance swashbuckle to the hat like he owned the stage.

He sat, the hat fell over his eyes, and Rachel and the entirety of the Great Hall seemed to wait with bated breath. It felt an eternity was dragging on, and Rachel half-thought it was just her impatience gnawing at her, but people started to murmur, too.

"It's a hat stall," the girl in front of her whispered smartly. Her blonde hair was pulled into twin pigtails, her sleeves a little too long. Then she turned to Rachel. "Is he your brother?"

"Uhh. Yeah."

She grinned. "I'm Romelle. Welcome to Hogwarts!" Romelle glanced up at Lance who, dear Merlin, still wasn't sorted. "Wow, he's a toughy."

"I guess," Rachel found obligatory to reply. She tapped at her thigh, heart beating like an erratic hamster. "Can it go a little faster, though?"

If it dragged on any longer, Rachel was going to get her hopes up. And that was never a good thing with predicaments like sorting.

"That hat will take its time," Romelle said certainly. "Did you know that the longest one almost took twenty minutes? Your brother hasn't even taken up five." She sighed. "This year is going to be filled with unique students, huh. The Hufflepuff boy and the Ravenclaw girl-they were almost hat stalls, too."

"Yeah." Rachel scowled at the ratty hat, barely listening to Romelle as she willed the sorting to speed up. In her imagination, the hat was opening up, was mouthing the words Gryffindor, and, as if fate had heard her and had cackled in villainous amusement, the hat did jerk open its torn-and-stitched mouth, but the house that was called was not the one clad in warm colors.

The hissing sound of the "S" of his new house was sibilated, dragged out like it was holding her heart on pause

"SLYTHERIN!"

The string was cut, her heart dropping painfully to the bottom of her stomach, but when Lance met her eyes, she forced the corners of her lips up, shot him the thumbs up. He beamed brightly, and then his smile turned a little mischievous. Scrunching his nose, he suddenly turned his hair silver and green, the cool colors spreading like lava across the brown strands.

Applause and oohs of awe followed before he, too, was being pushed to his house, farther and farther out of Rachel's sight until all she felt was the twin presence pulsing in the back of her mind.

Naturally, the rest of the sorting was spent in quiet despondency. The feast, with its excessive desserts and vegetables and mountain-high delicacies almost shining in freshness, tasted dull in her mouth, and Rachel spent her time trying to discreetly sneak glances at the table across the room.

When her endeavors failed, she slumped in her chair and tried to divert her attention away from the curdling bewilderment, the disappointment. I'll pack some food for Azul. Didn't Veronica say that the owlery was located somewhere near. . . I'll figure it out.

She said the DADA teacher was really cool.

Isn't Coran the Care for Magical Creatures teacher?

I wonder if anybody sits in that empty seat next to him.

When headmaster Kolivan stood up and recited his welcome in cool indifference, Rachel had stuffed an entire meal into dozens of napkins, even though she knew a healthy owl's diet probably didn't include sticky buns or rosemary chicken.

On their way to the common rooms, Rachel stuck along long enough to remember the gist of the directions and the password, then peeled away from the group and headed in the opposite direction. She pulled out the crumpled map Veronica had made both her and Lance a while ago, when the heady feeling of starting Hogwarts had pushed to shore in the beginning of summer. But when she made her way up there, clutching at the food in her hands, the emptiness of the hallways began to peeve her, and thoughts of angry teachers running at her with rulers screaming, "You're breaking the rules!" pervaded her imagination.

She doubled back.

The windows that stretched into corridors seemed to be more shadows than concrete, the clittering of critters as claws and the looming shapes of stanchions as monsters. Rachel hastily dashed toward the path again, trying to remind herself that it was just dark paranoia, it was just dark paranoia, and HOLY MERLIN SOMEONE WAS FOLLOWING HER!

Rachel whipped around, her hand on her wand even though the only spell she knew was a levitation one. Her heart beating furiously, shoulders pulled inward, and unconsciously shifting into the stance she took whenever she was going to launch herself at one of her siblings, Rachel met face to face with . . . Keith?

Shrouded in darkness, skin pale, and dressed in all black, the boy looked like a ghoul. Around his neck was a loose Gryffindor tie, and it was then that Rachel realized that she hadn't seen him at the sorting.

"What are you doing!?" she asked, blood still palpitating like an earthquake from leftover adrenaline. Keith's mouth pulled down.

"Nothing," he said, oddly defensive. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing!" Rachel answered, just as fast, just as odd, even though going to the owlery shouldn't have been anything to hide. Curiosity won over self-perseverance, and, in a rather Lance-like move (jesh, maybe she had spent a little too much time with her twin over the summer), she asked, "Where were you at the sorting?"

"Nowhere," Keith said, rather petulantly. Rachel narrowed her eyes.

"Huh." she said, doing nothing to hide the suspicion. "You know where to go?"

"Yes."

He still followed her anyways. Halfway toward the Gryffindor common rooms, Rachel startled at a large, growling noise. Company prevented her from running as fast as she could, and she turned to Keith just to check if he had heard it, too, before registering his embarrassed look.

Oh. She glanced at the food clutched in her hand, no doubt a little crushed and mashed together and maybe a little disgusting, but . . . better nothing, right? "Here," she said, shoving the food at Keith, and then stared at him until he unwrapped the crumple of napkins. Inside, the sticky bun was smushed onto the turkey pie, and the turkey pie was equally smushed onto the potato salad. Honestly, Rachel wondered why she thought that preserving the food in flimsy napkins was a good idea, but it didn't look as bad as she thought, so there was that. "My brother really loves garlic knots," she told him, as if that would justify the mess. "but I like sticky buns more."

"Oh," Keith said, surprise lifting his eyebrows. "Oh. Um. Thanks. Why did you have this?"

Rachel shrugged. "Owl," she said simply.

Keith did not ask.

The next morning, when Keith shuffled to her in solidarity of simply having no one else to walk with in the crowd of sleepy first years still adjusting their newly-colored ties, Rachel considered it a win. Maybe the key to friendship was offering squashed food?

Dear mom, dad, Luis, Marco

If you haven't gotten the note from Lance yet or from the school, well, I got into Gryffindor! Lance got into Slytherin, though. He seems to be enjoying himself. I made a friend . . . kind of? His name is Keith. He's sort of broody-kind of like that phase you went through a while ago, Marco, but he's nice. I shared Azul's dinner with him. Well, I gave him Azul's dinner, which was technically not Azul's dinner. That's a good thing, right?

The food's good, though. Not as great as your cooking, mama, but good enough. Veronica says that she won the bet on which house Lance and I were going into, so now I have to pay Lance ten knuts. Thanks a lot, Luis. You had one job.

Anyways, classes are going okay. I mean, it's just beginning, so we haven't done much. So far, Hogwarts is pretty cool. It's just like how you guys described it, and I've read enough picture books about it, but sometimes it still catches me off-guard. Lance thinks he's already found a secret passage, but I think Katie Holt-you know her, right? Apparently she's going by Pidge now?-found it in reality. But, yeah. I like it here. Will keep you updated!

Much love,

Rachel

Dear Rachel,

WAIT WHAT!? Rachel, you got into GRYFFINDOR!? . . . Okay, I shouldn't be surprised, but Lance got into SLYTHERIN!? Okay, I shouldn't be surprised . . . Merlin, how did I not see that coming? I heard from Lance that he was a hat stall, but please tell me he showed off with his metamorphmagus powers afterward. I have another bet going on with Marco, and you know how much he sucks at them, so I'm getting my ten knuts back.

Marco's busy with his Unspeakable duties right about now, and mama and papa are actually on a vacation right now. Haha, can you believe it? As soon as all of their kids are sent off, they go and catch a break. I literally laughed so hard at that I almost collapsed.

Anyways, I gotta go and . . . help with the parturition of Erana. You remember Erana? Passive aggressive little reptile. I'll tell Marco to mail you guys back-won't stop until he does.

Have fun at hogwarts! And hey, I'll tell you a little Gryffindor secret (by the way, you're my favorite sib now)-there's a little alcove just above the fireplace. You have to pry open the mouth of the lion to get to it. May be a tight fit and will be extremely awkward if you just suddenly fall from it when people are around, but nice spot to stay if you ever just want to get away from people!

Enjoy yourself, Rach,

Luis

It was a few days after the first day that Rachel flushed a little too red to be normal, and Keith had pointed it out in wary concern before she enlightened him on the effects of metamorphmagus. It was a sunny winter day when Keith looked her squarely in the eyes and said, "The only reason I talked back to you was because Shiro wanted me to socialize more."

Rachel replied with, "Same," and that was that.

She thought her first friendship with someone outside family was going pretty well. Sure, they barely knew much about each other, but it was conciliatory to just have someone to sit next to in class. At the end of the day, they'd go their separate ways-she to the meeting spot next to the Black Lake with Lance, where he would fill her in on the gossip of the day ("You would not believe what Hunk did today!") and Keith went . . . who knows where.

There were moments when Rachel thought she and Keith were somewhat too similar. It came when reticence stretched too long in the dearth of a leaving posse of shouting girls or giggling boys, and Rachel half-expected Lance to come up and start rambling because it was what she was used to. It came when she told a joke that wasn't funny, and Keith didn't laugh, not even in politeness.

It came when she realized she had no idea whatsoever what to do to fix Keith's tendency to lash out and take things the wrong way because they were both doing it.

She supposed it was only funny that she was able to reinforce their friendship with a fight.

It had been chilly, the cusps of a turning season creeping in at the corner. Lance had scheduled a study date with his friends from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and thus, Rachel spent her time with Keith. They were bundled up outside, heating charms keeping their fingers warm as they worked on their History homework. The teacher, Mrs. Swirn, had thought it beneficial to all to assign a five-page essay on the curious data of muggle-borns gradually becoming more and more magically powerful in the past few centuries when there hadn't even been enough research to even fill one page.

"Why do we have to provide an example?" Rachel muttered, frustratingly tapping the feathered tip of her quill against her cheek. "Can I just pretend I'm a muggle-born? Or you're a muggle-born?"

"I don't think it works that way," Keith said.

"Maybe I should've asked Lance to go with him. He said he'd finished the essay . . ." she rolled her eyes. "Then again, he probably just over-explained everything." She glanced at the four pages she still had to fill, contemplating on writing down, "According to Doctor Flisgworth, the founding of the turning point, which means that what happened was really really really really really important, was founded when it was founded about a thousand years ago, or a millenium as another synonym, a word that means. . ." but dropped the idea because the topic (which was actually pretty interesting) didn't deserve to be debauched like that.

"Maybe I should ask Veronica," Rachel muttered.

Before Keith could use his signature grunt of recognition, someone tripped over them, a flurry of dark robes and yellow and black tie. Rachel and Keith's shared little cup of ink tipped over, spilling black and drowning scrawled words. She jumped up in surprise, stepping back to avoid the mess, and then whipped around to see the offender-a boy with tousled brown hair and a pointy chin.

James Griffin, second best in the DADA class only because Keith was somewhat of a prodigy.

"Oops," he said, but the word was dropped flat into the puddle of ink.

Rachel glowered furiously. She and Keith had purposely gravitated toward their area because it was thoroughly out of the way of the majority of passersby. And even if people did decide to take the path, it would take a lot to cross over their workspace.

Keith, apparently, had reached the same conclusion as she had.

"I didn't ruin your Defense Against the Dark Arts homework, did I?" James asked in faux concern.

"No," Keith growled. "You gonna clean that up for us?"

"Aw, Kogane bad at Charms? Maybe all that recklessness in DADA sucked out all the talent elsewhere."

"Look," Rachel stepped up, a little nervously. "If you're here to fight, you can just-"

But James plowed on. "I guess that really does prove you're only here because Mr. Shirogane vouched for you when you parents couldn't be bothered to-"

Keith's fists were the first to clench, but Rachel's were the first to connect with skin, cutting off James's remark with an audible crack.

A few minutes later, she found herself in Mr. Kolivan's office, stiff fingers clutching the still-ruined history essay, muttering in reply to the headmaster's careful reprimanding. She slouched outside with a three-day detention and a fixed essay and was met with the silent stare of Keith Kogane.

Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Hi." She was ready to say something like, "I'm sorry James was being such a douche, what's up with that?" or blurt out something insensitive like, "What was he going to say?" when Keith decided to take things into his own hands.

"Why did you do that?"

"I-what?" Rachel crossed her arms defensively, mirroring Keith.

"You-punched him."

"Yeah? So? I felt like it."

"I don't need you to defend me!" his voice was loud, louder than any conversation they'd ever had stacked upon each other and blended together.

"What?" Rachel asked indignantly. "I wasn't defending you!"

"Yes, you were! I could take what he said! I don't care!" Keith's fingers were turning white pressed against his palms. His expression, usually indifferent, apathetic, was flushed red. Anger stood out stark against his skin and reached out toward Rachel.

"What the heck?" Rachel shouted back. Her own hands, still throbbing from the novelty of punching someone, curled into fists of her own. "Is this what it's about?"

"Yes!" Keith threw his arms up. Their voices echoed off the halls, and for once, Rachel didn't check to see if there were any possible eavesdroppers.

"Are you kidding me!? You think I, what, attacked your eleven-year old manliness or something? I did it because you're-you're-" Rachel screwed up her face. "Because you're my friend? Did you think of that? And, also, I have morals, and James was being a bully or something, and I was angry because he ignored me, and I already feel a little beat up because of that, okay? You think I like going around punching everybody? No! I don't! And guess what, it's only the first month of school, and I already have detention, and I've never-" Embarrassedly, her lips trembled, and suddenly everything was so much easier when she was the comforter back in their little house with Lance's bedroom right across the hall and her twin admitting his fears on a cloudy fall day. Suddenly, she was very, very aware that their shouting might attract an audience.

"Whatever!" she said, her voice crescendoing despite her realization. She turned and marched away, making sure to stomp her heels loudly on the tiled floors. Her curly hair tinged red in her vision, and she was glad that emotions and colors weren't as impactful for her as it was for Lance.

The next few days, she studiously avoided Keith like the plague and found solace in the limited company of her twin. Lance didn't ask what had happened, instead offered to show her his History essay (she was right-he did overexplain everything) and introduce her to his friends.

Katie and Hunk were geniuses, Rachel realized. Brilliant, nerdy geniuses who knew a little too much about spell theory than any first year should, and even spending a minute or so with them left Rachel feeling a little overwhelmed. She wondered if that was why she'd sometimes get little stabs of an emotion she couldn't quite discern but was almost certain had come from Lance (it was hard to differentiate between her emotion and his, especially since the bond connecting them only managed to sift measly amounts through). The act kept up for a week, and Rachel was beginning to crack.

It would've been okay, she thought angrily, if she and Keith hadn't adapted their schedule together right from the start.

She'd grown up in a home that was almost always close to overflowing, and even something as simple as an empty chair next to her that should've been filled left her feeling a bit more homesick. Absence made Rachel ruminate over what she said, and with unsuited surprise, she realized that she had meant it. Even though she barely knew anything about the sober boy, though they barely talked, she'd somehow formed a connection through shared silence.

And now everything seemed somewhat too loud.

Fortunately, when she herself almost gave up in the silent-silent treatment, Keith approached her. She was sitting in the same spot James had interrupted, muttering the knockback jinx she'd failed incredibly at, when the shadow of an intruder fell upon, and Rachel had looked up to see the one and only.

Uncertainly, Keith sat down, and handed her something wrapped in a dozen napkins. Rachel took it slowly, pinching her mouth dubiously, before unwrapping it and revealing three squashed sticky buns.

"Sorry for yelling at you," Keith said.

Rachel ripped off a particularly syrupy piece and stuffed it in her mouth. "It's okay. Sorry for yelling at you."

"It's okay."

Rachel stuffed the entire sticky bun in her mouth, and for a moment, the only sound was of her chewing. "Is-is Mr. Shirogane your guardian or something?"

The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was perhaps her favorite, even though the class necessarily wasn't. Maybe it was because he was closest to the students' ages-nearing only a decade older-or maybe it was the open way he carried himself, or maybe it was just the cool wand he had. He had lost his right arm a while ago ("From battling dementors and vampires at once," Romelle had informed her wisely), and it had been replaced with an incredible craftsmanship of twisted wood-essentially a wand built into him.

Keith hesitated, scuffing his shoes into the concrete. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"Oh," Rachel said. She thought back to what James had accused Keith of, understood a little, and felt all the more righteous rage of it. "He must be . . . cool," she finished lamely.

Now, Keith turned toward her, a smile twitching at his outward apathy. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."

After that milestone, their partnership in classes wasn't spent communicating with monosyllabic responses, and their friendship improved beyond one portion of food in napkins to two portions of food in napkins.

It was a few weeks afterward that Keith admitted that the reason he hadn't shown up at the sorting was because he had been accompanying Mr. Shirogane who had abruptly harbored a painful migraine, to the med-wing; he'd been sorted in the headmaster's office privately. It was a few weeks afterward that Rachel began sharing the homemade desserts her mom sent her with him, and it was a few weeks after that that they attended their first Quidditch match together and, packed into the stands, wind biting their cheeks red, Keith had glanced at her with stars in his eyes and had told her, very seriously, "I want to play."

She couldn't help but think that he and Lance might've gotten along rather well together, but with such vastly different timetables, she and Lance were only able to fit a small amount of time into the weekends together, and it was even harder to drag Veronica into it, let alone pull Keith (who was inherently opposed to anything involving new people) along.

Sometimes Rachel would spot her older sister in the halls, walking to the left of a tall girl with poofy white hair and a tall boy with smooth white hair, and Rachel would raise her eyebrows and wonder, for the hundredth time, what Veronica had for white hair.

But it wasn't as disheartening as she had thought. She had meant what she said, and she knew Lance did, too. Twins. Best friends. She was glad that, whatever Lance was doing that was eating up his time like Azul with her snacks, he was doing it because he wanted to.

And, if anything, they still had the twin bond, the subtle pulse of magic through their relation like some sort of smiling secret weaved into a thin blanket, and they still had letters, and they still had the little seconds between hours when they would make faces at each other before rushing toward their next class.

And then, natch, Lance looked out for her in other ways. When the Griffin incident spread like hot coals beneath feet, he had looked over and smirked that silver and green smirk that Slytherins were notorious for, and the next day, Rachel found James with his hair and clothes and skin spelled temporarily hot pink.

Naturally, Keith and her had laughed themselves silly in the most introverted way possible.

Dear Rachel,

Sorry! I am in a bit of a rush, but Luis was being rather pushy, and I felt that I had put this off for a little too long, considering that it would be around halfway through the year for you now, wouldn't it? So, this is a little belated, but congratulations in getting into Gryffindor! It has, afterall, produced many influential figures in history-Harry Potter, of course, being a rather huge one.

Lance is friends with Katie Holt, huh? It strikes me as odd that you guys do not know her well. Matt, Shiro, and Luis were real good friends during their years in Hogwarts. I suppose Lance is continuing that trend-friendship with the Holts, am I right?

Also, what have you been feeding Azul? Apparently it's not Lance or Veronica, or the two are lying. Azul's been acting rather hyper lately . . . Well, my time is almost up. I love and miss you-give a hug to both Lance and Ronny for me, okay?

Marco

Dear Marco,

It's okay. I'm just glad you found the time to actually reply! By the way, Azul really loves the food I bring her, so . . . Also, who's Matt?

But yeah, I'm also sort of busy right now. Probably not as much as you with your top-secret job and all, but Mr. Shirogane and Mrs. Swirn are both real tough teachers. One is a really great one, and one not so much. It's hard to write separately to all of you guys-I experienced with it this week, so I think I'm just gonna send collective letters again.

I'm doing fine in school. I think I'm going to take Muggle Studies next year. I'm actually quite interested in Veronica's work-maybe she'll let me tag along next time she leaves for her internship with Mr. Holt?

And now I also have to go. I have Care of Magical Creatures in a few moments-the teacher, Mr. Smythe, is also awesome, how long has he been teaching?-so good luck at work!

See you soon,

Rachel

Dear Rachel,

Yeah, Coran (I do not know how long he has been teaching, but he seems to be the age of our parents), Shiro, and Swirn would be. That is very exciting, how you are interested in Muggle studies. Have you asked Veronica yet? Sorry again, I need to be off, but I look forward to your next letter.

Marco

Hogwarts was nice. At the end of the year, when all of the older students were rushing around with anti-stress charms and candies, Rachel and Keith leisurely studied in the Gryffindor common room. She showed him the hidden niche Luis had told her of, and too often, she'd find Keith pulling open the lion's jaw and boosting himself up into it.

That predicament motivated Rachel to go exploring, and more often than not, she found herself in areas of the school she had no business being in.

But it was also where she saw other people being in the aforementioned areas who also had no business loitering there. More often than not, it was Romelle tucked in the most arbitrary of places, a finger to her lips as she listened to passing wizards and witches (the fourth year Gryffindor, Rachel learned, was a rather notorious gossip; but more than that, Romelle loved to hear people talk).

Usually, Rachel left them alone, but when she caught Katie Holt sneaking around the Slytherin boys' bathrooms, she felt the need to act.

"What are you doing?" she asked, rather suddenly. Secretly, she crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping she'd mistaken the figure for someone else. She'd only seen the girl once or twice and hadn't truly conversed with her, even with the hasty introductions Lance had made a while ago. But Rachel, who knew only one male Slytherin friend Katie would hang around, held that it was only courteous to look after her twin and his possible demise (and then, Rachel would be less inclined to admit, maybe Marco's letter had intrigued her more than she thought it would).

Katie jumped, her hand skimming to a halt on the wall, fingers tightening around the spine of her book and whipping around and tucking the heavy tome into the creases of her robes so that it was impossible to discern the title.

Her mouth turned down defensively, and Rachel thought she saw her hair rising like a startled porcupine. "Looking for ghosts who can possess people," she snapped. "Why?"

"Really?" Rachel asked, leaning closer. "You know, in that case, you're probably right. You've ever heard of the Bloody Baron? He was, like, a super old ghost or something."

"You're Lance's sister. Veronica?"

"Rachel," said Rachel. "And you're Katie."

"Pidge." Pidge said, clenching her jaw as if something were bugging her. Her knuckles were white around the bulge of the book she held.

. . . Or maybe she just wanted Rachel to leave her alone. In that case-"Is Lance in there?"

For some reason, Pidge's expression relaxed. "No."

Rachel scrutinized the other girl's demeanor, found no lie, and shrugged. Well. It wasn't her business if eclectic fellows decided dawdling around bathrooms was a lovely passtime. Just as she was about to leave, vaguely conscious of Pidge's intense stare, Rachel halted, a thought coming back to her.

Like thoughts sometimes do.

"Hey . . . you know anything about headaches?"

"What?"

"My friend. He has a . . . mentor-ish person. He's been having a lot of migraines, and nothing magical is working, and since your dad is a muggle, living in the muggle world and all that, I was wondering if, well. If non-magical folks have something?"

Pidge stared at her for a moment, amber eyes narrowed. Slowly, she said, "Okay."

"Right okay." she was about to leave again when her manners came back.

Like manners rarely did.

"Thanks."

Luis,

I think I might've made a mistake and mentioned something I shouldn't have mentioned . . .

Marco

Marco,

As an unspeakable, you sure need to learn how to keep your mouth shut.

Luis

 **. . . Back at it with a Hogwarts crossover.**


End file.
